


For What Binds Us

by ailurish



Category: Curse Workers Series - Holly Black, Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Curse Workers AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailurish/pseuds/ailurish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Mark learns when he starts Harvard is that it means nothing to be special. You first have to be ordinary if you want to do extraordinary things, and this is why Mark hides his talent as carefully as he hides his hands. Eduardo sees him anyway; Eduardo, who can claim his work as openly and easily as he can smile. Mark wants to know what that means. He wants to know what that feels like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For What Binds Us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for TSN Big Bang 2012/Round 3.
> 
> [Look at the beautiful art](http://savetomorrow.livejournal.com/21973.html) for this fic, done by [savetomorrow](http://savetomorrow.livejournal.com/), who is the actual greatest. 
> 
> Title comes from the poem of the same name by Jane Hirschfield.

For What Binds Us

When Mark is five, he is given the great task of watching Donna while his mom changes the laundry. It’s simple enough, but he still remembers when she was small and strange and once, when he wanted to pick her up, it made his mom scared and she took the baby away before he could even look at her. He still remembers his mom’s hand covering his when he wanted to give Donna her bottle, but he’s not really doing it if his mom’s there.

So when his mom says, “Be careful, honey, she’s not a toy, and I’ll be right back,” Mark nods seriously and doesn’t slouch at all when he sits in the couch.  
The five minutes it takes her to make the switch seems like an eternity. He’s bored already with the living room and Donna is ignoring him anyway, playing on the floor by the couch. He leaves her there for just a second so he can get to the toy box and comes back with a book bigger than his head, thick cardboard pages with no words but pictures that Donna likes to poke at. He reads her the names of birds and dogs and trees and she repeats them back, even though what she’s saying mostly babble.

He slips his arms around her small, round belly and tries to pick her up, pull her onto the couch with him, but she’s too heavy. Her dress is slippery and she slides like an eel right back onto the floor, landing with a heavy _thud_. A second later her face crumples, and she lets out a wail that cuts right through Mark like nothing he’s ever felt before.

He drops to the floor to gather her up again, says _sorry sorry_ even though it doesn’t make him feel better and it doesn’t make Donna better. He wills her to stop crying, to stop being sad, to forgive him, and she falls silent. She turns her eyes up to his face, tear-tracks down her cheeks, and looks at him with pure delight. She giggles.  
That’s the first time Mark works anyone. He spends the rest of the night alternately crying and bubbling with laughter, filled completely by something that makes his hands shake and he apologizes over and over but still it doesn’t go away. His mom and dad talk in the kitchen but he can’t hear what they’re saying and it makes his tummy sick, and the sickness makes him scared.

It’s the first time. As far as five year old Mark Zuckerberg is concerned, it’s also going to be the last.

\--

|||

> The room is ostentatiously large, which doesn’t surprise Mark in the least. He looks down the long length of the table – someone pulls out a chair for him, and Mark sits. He doesn’t have to look across the way to know that Eduardo, in his immaculate suit, is being given the same treatment. 
> 
> He does look, though. Eduardo’s ridiculous hair has been slicked back professionally. He looks like Wall Street. He looks like somebody Mark doesn’t know.  
>  The lawyers settle in, shaking hands and smiling as if they aren’t on the opposite ends of a high-profile, high-stakes lawsuit; papers are shuffled and stacked, the stenographer begins. Mark is still buzzing from the swearing in: as if he would lie, as if he has _any reason_ to lie.
> 
> What he doesn’t expect is for Eduardo’s lawyer to look him in the eye, sit up straighter, and begin her line of questioning with: _Did you know that Eduardo is a worker?_
> 
> “Yes,” Mark says. _Define partnership,_ Mark thinks.

“Did you know,” Mark tells the ceiling, “that intelligence tests prove no correlation between those who can work curses and those who can’t?”

The ceiling doesn’t answer, but Chris mutters _fascinating_ from his perch in the window and Dustin giggles the breathless, helpless laugh of the drunk. Mark, with some difficulty, cranes his neck off the back of the couch and glares in Chris’s general direction, dissatisfied to notice that he’s reading a book again and not paying any attention. He kicks at Dustin instead, slumped between the couch and the little coffee table, littered with the empty bottles of all the beer the three of them could manage to steal from the floor party over in Dunster.

“Ow,” Dustin says.

“It’s true. Workers don’t make up a large percentage of college attendance because the elite assume they’re all criminals.”

Dustin looks at him with large eyes and says, “They’re not? No, no of course they’re not. All criminals. Smart people. What are you talking about?”

Chris snaps his book shut and they both jump a little; Dustin’s knee knocks against the table leg and all the bottles tumble over.

“You two are going to regret this in class tomorrow, and don’t you dare try to say I didn’t warn you.”

“Christopher Hughes from North Carolina, you are no fun,” Dustin declares, “I thought Mark would be no fun but I was wrong, my friend, I was wrong,” and maybe getting drunk with your new roommates is not the best way to break the ice.

Mark ends up sprawled across the couch that night and spends the first day of his sophomore year hungover and muscle sore.

The truth is, it shouldn’t matter. Being a curse worker is not what got Mark into Harvard, and it’s not going to be what he is remembered for. He has the advantage of people thinking he’s HBG-negative, of thinking he’s _normal_ , and that works for Mark.

But there’s a harder truth to learn, and the better you hide, the harder it is to find yourself again.

 

|||

> “Mr. Saverin,” Sy begins, opening a file in front of himself. “According to your application to Harvard University, you are a confirmed hyperbathygammic, is this correct?”
> 
> “Yes.” 
> 
> When Eduardo elaborates no further, Sy clears his throat and continues.
> 
> “I have with me a test that was voluntarily included in your application. Is there any specific reason you decided to get the test?”
> 
> “I – my father and I, that is, had decided to be open about my abilities while we were living in Brazil. There was no reason to hide public knowledge when my family immigrated, and it was my intention to be honest with the school as well.”
> 
> “And you knew the risk you were taking?”
> 
> “I’m a hyperbathygammic living in America, sir, I was well aware of the risks.”
> 
> Sy nods, like this was some test and Eduardo passed it, and pulls out another sheet of paper from underneath his HBG test results. “Your application was waitlisted, is this correct?”
> 
> A pause. “Correct. Harvard accepted me the following year.”
> 
> “Do you have reason to believe that the school delayed your acceptance due to your hyperbathygammia?”
> 
> Eduardo turns to his lawyer for a moment, who raises her eyebrows at him and gestures for him to answer. “I have every reason to believe that is true, yes, but I have no record of criminal activity. I wasn’t worried about my good standing as a student.”
> 
> “So you would say that you did not feel specifically prosecuted by the school’s administration?”
> 
> “ _Prosecuted?_ ,” Eduardo’s lawyer cuts in. “Waitlisting and accepting students on a probationary basis is commonplace for universities that accept diversity, Sy, this line of questioning is superfluous. We have established that my client is HBG-positive, can we move on?”
> 
> If it were the professional thing to do, Mark is sure that Sy would be rolling his eyes. As it is he just levels a sarcastic stare at Eduardo’s lawyer, then closes his file, folding his hands together and resting them there. “By my understanding, the two of you barely knew each other before you entered into a business partnership.”
> 
> Eduardo’s eyes flicker to Mark’s for the first time and hold there. “We knew each other.”

“Out! We’re going out. It’s a thing people do! A college thing!”

“Dustin, you are an idiot.”

Dustin continues to grin bafflingly even while Chris sighs in Mark’s direction and mutters something about playing nice, which Mark ignores. The last thing he wants to be doing with his night is holding up the wall at some shitty party for a shitty fraternity that he only joined so that it would look good on paper; it’s not his fault that he’s had the misfortune of rooming with at least one other member who thinks it’s a good idea for him to socialize. It’s not.

He sighs. Hits _ctrl+s_. “It’s not like I’m doing homework anyway,” he mutters, which makes Dustin whoop loudly and throw up victory arms.  
Reflexively, Mark turns his hands palm up and glances at the fingertips of his gloves, the fabric thin and shiny from his keyboard. They’re worn down enough that he can classify them as threadbare, so he digs around in his dresser for a new pair and tugs them on.

The party is worse than he imagined, the wall is more uncomfortable than he imagined. Only the beer holds up to expectation, which is to say that it’s as shitty as ever, and Mark drinks as much of it as he can.

“You look thrilled to be here,” says a too-cheerful voice to his left. Mark turns and squints. There’s someone wearing a heavy, expensive jacket smiling at him.

“That’s not really working out for you, you know,” Mark says.

The guy smiles politely, if a bit confused. “What?”

“The hair. If you’re trying to look older, then why is your hair so ridiculous?”

Ridiculous Hair Guy laughs. He holds out a gloved hand and Mark shakes it carefully. “Eduardo,” the guy says.

“Really?”

“Uh. Yes?”

“Okay. Mark.”

“’Really?’” Eduardo parrots. Mark laughs.

Mark never really asks Eduardo to stay but he doesn’t make him leave ether, so they stand together at the wall while Mark snipes about the terrible decorations – can you blame him? – and Eduardo laughs, which is baffling.

“Let’s just fucking leave,” he says at one point, and without entirely realizing it, Mark is letting Eduardo follow him back through the cold New England air to his dorm.

“What are you then, memory worker? Death?” Mark is sluggish still from the shitty beer, but Eduardo does seem anxious enough to be a death worker. He can’t imagine Harvard would have let him in, though, unless he was better at hiding it in his interview that he is right now.

“What – what?” Eduardo says, and his hands clench reflexively. The cold leather of his gloves creaks. “How did you…?”

“Oh come on, you don’t hide it very well. And your accent’s off.”

The residual heat from the party has worn off and Mark hops up the steps to Kirkland. Eduardo his hesitating at the bottom of the steps, but he follows Mark inside and up the staircase. The dorm is empty.

“Huh,” he says, “they must still be out.” There are still a few beers in the mini-fridge – Mark makes a mental note to get back at Dustin as soon as his head is clear enough to think of proper revenge – and he hands one to Eduardo, who is wandering slowly around the common area and tugging on the fingers of his gloves.

“What does my accent have to do with anything?”

“You never answered my question.”

“I – luck, okay, not that it’s really your business.” Eduardo takes a long swig of beer.

That’s disappointing. Luck work is far and away the most common type, but that’s not what’s interesting about Eduardo, anyway. He’s so forthcoming, even as he chews the inside of his cheek, eyes darting to the door and away.

“Okay,” Mark shrugs. “Want to play Halo? Dustin has, like, every game under the sun.”

Eduardo doesn’t seem to have ever played a video game in his life, which is probably hyperbolic but in any case he really, really sucks and Mark beats him easily. It doesn’t stop Eduardo from trying, and before long he’s managed to lose his shoes and his fucking _cuff links_ , and who even wears those, anyway?

Eduardo wins his first round and is inordinately pleased with himself, fiddling with his controller while Mark sets up the last round. “Hey, but how did you figure it out?” he asks. “The accent?”

Mark finishes off his beer and lets the empty bottle dangle off his fingers a moment before letting it slip to the floor and out of the way. “You’re not American,” he explains. “If you were born in America, you’d know how to hide it.”

He’s silent after that, long enough that Mark begins to wonder if this is when Eduardo is going to politely excuse himself, maybe go back to the party and find someone else to steal beer from.

“It’s not a secret,” he says finally, looking up from his controller.

Mark shrugs. “It doesn’t have to be.”

The expression Eduardo wears after that is completely indecipherable, but Mark doesn’t have to wonder long: Chris and Dustin file into the suite a moment later.

“There you are!” Dustin crows, flopping himself the other side of Mark, knocking over Mark’s empty bottle in the process. “We were starting to think you’d drunk yourself into oblivion and we’d have to start searching alley ways. Who’s that?”

“I’m Eduardo,” Eduardo says, reaching across Mark to shake Dustin’s hand.

Dustin introduces himself and then Chris, like he does, and then Mark even though Eduardo already knows Mark, and before long they’re all taking turns playing drunken video games, which is infinitely better than the frat party and validates Mark’s earlier vote for just staying in the dorm. Eduardo jostles Mark’s leg when he loses his last round and gets up for another beer, handing his controller off to Chris. 

“Whose bed is that?” Eduardo asks, quite innocently. Chris and Mark crane their heads around while Dustin is busy taking advantage of their stalled on-screen counterparts and winning the match; Eduardo is looking across at a bed piled high with books, papers, and discarded clothes.

“Billy,” Mark and Chris say in unison. Eduardo raises an eyebrow.

“He’s our roommate,” Dustin chirps, “technically. He only uses the bed when he has nowhere else to crash.”

“I’ve never even seen him go to class,” Mark supplies, taking Eduardo’s offered beer. “Has anyone _ever_ seen him go to class?”

“I have,” Chris says. “He’s, like, hyper attentive.”

“It’s emotion work, I think,” says Dustin, who is focused again on setting up a new match. Mark stills.

Chris screws his face up in the look of drunken concentration. “Really?”

“Yup. I heard it’s some guy at BU? He holds these weird parties and gives people natural highs.”

“Huh,” Chris says. “Isn’t that illegal?” and Dustin starts giggling and that’s the end of the conversation.

Mark’s understanding of emotion is this: either you’re happy or you’re sad; either trustful or wary; upset or okay; yes or no, on or off. It has to be this way or you wouldn’t be able to handle day to day life. Mark has experienced the blowback only rarely, but it’s enough to keep him certain that feeling too many emotions at once isn’t normal. It wouldn’t be blowback if it were normal. The blowback why even the thought of touching someone with his bare hand has Mark feeling shaken with anxiety: when it’s done, when he’s ridden it out and is emotionally stable again, Mark feels like he’s been cheated. Like waking up from a nightmare and feeling foolish at the terror that meant nothing, or the moment you realize you’ve let your hopes get too high and the world is in shambles at your feet.

He takes precautionary measures. Mark’s always a mess - he forgoes showers and clean clothes for code; grabs whatever off the floor and doesn’t bother with shoes most of the time – it doesn’t mean that he’s not aware of himself. He just has higher priorities; his gloves happen to be one of them. They are immaculate. They’re always clean, never ever worn down, really decently made and fitted. It’s not as if he’s _afraid_ of accidently touching someone; he just isn’t sure entirely how his curse works. It’s more about not wanting to deal with the blowback than it is about keeping it a secret, he tells himself, but Harvard – and the rest of the world, so he hears – is much more complicated than that. The thought of someone out there willingly using their curse, _recreationally_ using their curse, has Mark feeling exposed. Weak.

Eduardo comes back over to the couch, sitting heavily next to Mark. Neither of them say anything, Eduardo hands Mark a beer, and curse work isn’t mentioned for the rest of the night.

\--

Everything starts to change after that, and when he thinks back on it, it will be easy to pick out Eduardo as the catalyst. Eduardo keeps coming over and meeting them for lunch; he hovers around Mark’s desk when he’s coding but doesn’t say anything, just watches the lines of code sweep across the screen until he gets bored and opens his own textbooks.

Mark thinks about it: he asked Eduardo to keep coming around, _false_ ; he wants Eduardo to stay, _true_. He carries on like nothing has changed, and really, it hasn’t – it’s just that Eduardo is here now. He keeps coming back, and he stays, and he stays, and he stays.

\--

Having lost Dustin in the crowd when he went to grab another beer, Mark wanders into the common area of some BU co-ed dorm and finds himself smack in the middle of a debate on worker rights. He sits on the edge of the couch and stares into his beer while he listens to the drunken bickering, his own thoughts sloshing around sluggishly, and that’s where he meets Erica Albright.

She never outright admits that she’s a worker, but she doesn’t have to. People eventually wander off, bored, and Mark slips off the arm of the couch and onto the seat across from Erica, plunking his plastic beer cup down on the coffee table.

“You really believe that?” is what he opens with, which in hindsight was the single most challenging question he could have asked. Erica’s eyes are bright when they land on his, and not with the drink. She is, as far as he can tell, completely sober. That, or a more impressive drunk than Mark is.

“Being a worker is not synonymous with being a criminal. Discriminating against them is like charging a person for murder just because they own a knife, so yes, random stranger, I do believe that anti-discrimination laws should be put into effect.”

“Mark,” Mark says.

“Erica.” She reaches a gloved hand across the table and they shake perfunctorily, the alcohol in Mark’s system showing its colors.

“It sounds nice, but equality doesn’t happen overnight. Businesses have their reasons, right? It’s not exactly fair if your competitor has a luck worker in their employ.”

“So make the act illegal, not the person.”

“Can it be proved? Crime families have ways around that, you know. Memory work, emotion work.”

Erica shakes her head. “Crime rings operate that way because they have to. We made the world this way, we’re the only ones who can change it.”

“’We?’” 

Erica lifts her chin. “We, collectively. You don’t think workers have just as much of a responsibility to their cause?”

Now they’re getting somewhere. “If that’s going to happen, then workers have to go public.”

Erica purses her lips and takes a moment to drink from a half-empty cup of shitty beer, probably warm. “You mean if alliances are going to happen.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then we need people who aren’t afraid. We need workers who are proud of who they are, who aren’t afraid to stand up for themselves.”

“ _Bare hands, bare hearts_ ,” Mark says, quoting the popular pro-HBG slogan. Erica bursts into laughter, nodding, and Mark smirks.

\--

As it turns, out Erica Albright is even smarter when she’s sober. Mark has to ask the door guy at The Thirsty Scholar if he remembers seeing a girl that fits Erica’s description and where he can find her after he spends a night mulling worker politics over in his mind.

Turns out the door guy does know her – he wishes there were an easier way to find someone – and meeting her for drinks becomes a regular thing. Erica, who is most likely a worker but refuses to tell him which curse, wears a regular set of curse-breaking charms around her neck.

“You’re afraid,” Mark says, waving his hand at the pendants.

“I’m afraid of regular people too,” Erica says, half-laughing. “I’m more likely to be date raped at this bar than to be cursed. These are a sign of pride.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Pride?”

“Look.” Erica leans forward, eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks as she gathers her thoughts. “If we act like we’re afraid all the time, then it only proves there’s something to be afraid _of_. Like the gloves.” She tugs at her own, loosening them around her fingertips idly. “Why should we fear bare hands? Why should we protect ourselves? Because it keeps them thinking we’re all the enemy.”

Mark sits back in his chair and regards her, sipping at his beer. “You’re not the enemy.”

She smiles. “Neither are you.”

The scariest part about it is that Mark never bothers to correct her.

\--

“She was wrong,” Mark says, spinning his chair around. “Gloves don’t create a taboo, they create mistrust.”

“What?” is Eduardo’s reply, muffled because he’d let his open book drop onto his face when Mark had turned around. “Are you still talking about Erica?”

“Obviously, Wardo, keep up.”

Eduardo sits up, folding his legs and the corner of the page he’s reading and says Mark’s name in a tone that either means he’s about to get up and go study elsewhere, or that he’s about to give Mark a lecture. Mark always sticks around for the lecture parts, unless they’re the boring ones about how he’d work better if he fed himself properly and slept more. 

He doesn’t leave. “Are you working on homework?” he says suspiciously.

“Think about it. How many people do you know for sure are workers? You don’t count. You’re, like, as obvious as a wolf among sheep.” Mark pauses. “Bad analogy. Point is, when you don’t know for sure, you start to guess. And _that’s_ dangerous. It’s practically immoral.”

“What is, letting people keep their own secrets?”

Mark sets his jaw. “No. _Forcing_ people to keep their secrets.” He swings his chair around, head still buzzing from the bar earlier.

It takes a while for Eduardo to catch on, leaning over Mark’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Proving a point. Wanna see what would happen to this campus if everyone started just guessing who’s a worker and who isn’t?”

“Hey, come on, this isn’t some stupid social experiment, is it?”

Mark nods, still typing up the basic site functionality. “That’s exactly it. Providing proof of the Heebeegeebees is incriminating, so nobody could confirm or deny. I can get all the pics on campus, set them up so people can guess, and -- ”

“Mark. Do you really think this is such a good idea?”

Mark shrugs. His eyes never leave the monitor. 

“That’s not an answer. Mark. Mark.”

“What?” Mark snaps, slamming the heels of his hands onto the keyboard. It jumps and the desk wobbles, empty cans of Red Bull clanking against Mark’s half-empty beer. 

Eduardo holds Mark’s eyes, but he says nothing. Mark lets himself break contact and he picks up his beer, takes a swig. He sets it back on the desk, rubs the condensation onto his jeans to preserve the leather of his gloves.

“Listen,” Eduardo says, “this is _illegal_. I don’t have time or the inclination to have a philosophical argument with you about this right now, it is _illegal_. And it’s not going to grant you any favors with the Worker community, I promise you that.”

“Can you give me that algorithm you used on your chess club rankings?”

“No.”

“I won’t,” Mark starts, then cuts himself off before he says something he shouldn’t. “I was joking, okay, I would never out a worker without their permission.”

“Thanks,” Eduardo says, after a beat. Mark wants to tell him that he didn’t say it for Eduardo’s benefit, but he’d be lying.

“You see what I mean, though?”

Eduardo sits heavily on the bed. “Yeah.”

“What is that?” Dustin says, suddenly aware of what’s going on in front of him. He leans over Marks’s shoulder to squint at the monitor. “Hotornot.com?”

Mark snorts. “Hardly. Hotornot’s ranking system sucks, anyway.” Mark looks at his script. Takes a drink. “You’re onto something, though. Wardo? That algorithm?”

When Eduardo squeezes his eyes shut and sighs, Mark knows he’s got him. 

\--

Two days and one academic probation later, Mark walks out of his OS class and nearly runs into two of the school’s rowers.  
Their meeting is anything but boring.

\--

Mark is still in the prewriting stages, adding the finishing touches to the feature lists for MySpace and Friendster on one of the huge whiteboards he’d dragged up the stairs and into the dorm when the door to the suite opens and Eduardo comes through, grinning with an excitement that matches Mark’s own.

“Wardo. I need to talk to you.”

“So do I, Mark, look.” Eduardo is holding up a thick, cream-colored envelope that Mark can’t register as anything familiar and says, “I got punched by the Phoenix.”

Mark stares. “The final club? You got -- that’s great, really, you should be proud of that. Eduardo, listen. I have an idea.”

The envelope sits forgotten, the white board forgotten, because Eduardo catches on immediately, eyes large and bright. “That’s good,” he says, hushed. “That’s genius, Mark,” and he smiles.

But when he has to leave for class, Mark notices the envelope still in his hand, its corners crinkled from wear under Eduardo’s gloved hands. _Oh_. 

“The Phoenix,” Mark says when Eduardo has almost reached the door, and he turns around, hand on the doorknob. “It’s probably just a diversity thing.”

Eduardo’s expression dulls around the edges, but Mark is flush with excitement. He knows they won’t let Wardo in; he thinks: _This company will let you in. I will._ He won’t be able to prevent Eduardo from feeling disappointment – he would never -- but he can give him something better, something greater than the final clubs could ever offer a known curse worker, and he feels everything begin to fall into place.

|||

> “When did Mr. Zuckerberg come to you with the idea for thefacebook?”
> 
> “Less than a week after the Facemash incident. It was a success, Mark had gained a lot of notoriety.”
> 
> “A success?” the lawyer repeats. “Mr. Zuckerberg was called in front of the Harvard administrative board, was he not?”
> 
> Mark barely resists rolling his eyes. “The ad board gave me what amounts to a warning. I didn’t use any of the school’s student information for thefacebook, they provided their own. That’s the point.”
> 
> Eduardo’s lawyer shuffles her notes.“Eduardo, you claimed that you were never credited for your contributions to thefacebook. Mr. Zuckerberg, why was Mr. Saverin left off the masthead, yet given a 30 percent share of the company?”
> 
> Mark opens his mouth to speak, glancing between Eduardo and his lawyer, but he has nothing to say. Nothing that isn’t incriminating, and Sy knows it. “Eduardo knew he wouldn’t be credited when he agreed to invest. To be a business partner.”
> 
> “But he wasn’t just a business partner, in practice _or_ in name, and yet you maintain that Eduardo’s work on thefacebook was crucial to the success of the company?”
> 
> “I wanted Eduardo to be part of the company because he had experience I didn’t have. He was the president of the Havard Investors’ Association as well as my best friend. It’s the same reason Eduardo said yes.”
> 
> Across the table, Eduardo fiddles with his pen, eyes on his hands, and says nothing.

On the day that Mark buys the domain _thefacebook.com_ , Eduardo spends his time in Widener poring over the history of Harvard. On the day after Mark buys the domain, Eduardo bursts into the dorm, once again holding a heavy envelope, but the expression he’s wearing this time is one Mark has to look away from.

“I didn’t make it.” The words drop flatly into the room and neither of them move for seconds that hang, dragging on.

Mark recovers, stepping forward to take the envelope from Eduardo’s hand. He doesn’t have to read it to know what it says: the Phoenix S-K Club has decided that they aren’t willing to accept HBG students at this time.

“This is stupid,” Mark goes, because even the final clubs are playing a game. It’s useless to be an elite club when you’re forced to exclude anyone truly extraordinary.

He tells Eduardo this, who makes a soft, wounded sound that has Mark looking up from the ridiculously thick paper. His thick coat has been dropped haphazardly to the foot of the couch and Eduardo makes an aborted movement forward, mouth opening and then closing again.

“Wardo? Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing.”

“It’s _not_ nothing, Mark, what am I going to tell my father?”

“He’ll be disappointed in them, not you,” Mark hazards, which he supposes is the wrong thing to say because Eduardo lets out a frustrated growl and takes the paper roughly out of Mark’s hand.

“Sorry,” he says after a moment of Mark scrutinizing him. Eduardo turns and places the envelope on the mantle. “I just – wanted this. And I didn’t ask to be a worker. And it’s not, it’s not fair,” he finishes, shamefaced.

“’Course it’s not fair. You have a talent and the world is afraid of it. They should be ashamed.” 

Eduardo is looking at him now in a way that’s as familiar as it is strange; something Mark knows but can’t place. Like he’s extraordinary in Eduardo’s eyes, even though he shouldn’t be. Eduardo doesn’t know; to him, Mark is normal. 

“Does it not bother you at all?” Eduardo says, voice curiously thick. “My being a worker?” Mark narrows his eyes.

“No. Why should it?”

The thing about emotion is that it doesn’t follow logic. Mark tries to think about what Eduardo interpreted from the things Mark said, but none of his answers lead him to any sort of understanding about what he does next. Eduardo makes a sound like one does when their last barrier breaks, starts forward, and bashes his knee against the edge of the couch. He doesn’t seem to even notice, and neither does Mark, because Eduardo’s expression is one he’s never seen before, not on anyone. It’s entirely knew. Then his gloved hands are catching Mark’s face, soft and seamless, and Mark doesn’t know how badly he’s been wanting this until Eduardo closes their mouths together.

It’s not something Mark has really thought about until now, kissing Eduardo. He thinks about how he had wanted nothing _from_ him, he had just wanted _Eduardo_ , and oh, oh, this is why.

The kiss is frantic like the last breath of a dying man, Mark struggling to catch his brain up with his mouth, Eduardo everywhere: his chest close, his feet close, everything too close and breathless and Mark pulls away, sucking in a breath.

“Have you – have – thinking about that?” he manages.

Eduardo laughs. “Yeah, Mark. Yeah.”

“Okay,” Mark says, and wraps an arm around Eduardo’s waist to press in at the small of his back, reeling him back in.

He lets out a noise of frustration when he slips his hands under Eduardo’s dress shirt, the fabric of his gloves keeping their skin apart. He can feel Eduardo heave in a breath, his ribcage widening under Mark’s hands, and Eduardo reaches down to take Mark’s wrist, slips his fingertips under the cuff of Mark’s glove and tugs. It shocks Mark so much that he freezes completely.

“Wardo?” he says, only half a question, the rest of it awe.

“It’s okay, I won’t take mine off, I promise.” Mark’s heavy heartbeat ratchets up another notch, but he doesn’t protest, lets Eduardo pull the fabric away from his fingers, one by one, and then slip off his gloves, first the left hand and then the right. “Okay?”

Mark flexes his fingers, still held close between their bodies. Outside of childhood, of those first few times when it takes you by surprise, it’s rare to curse someone accidentally – while the touch comes naturally, it’s a conscious act. Still, there’s a reason Eduardo hasn’t taken his own gloves off. There’s a reason Mark always keeps his gloves clean and in good repair.

It he can’t trust himself, he can trust nothing.

“Yeah,” he answers, reaching up with his bare hand to touch Eduardo’s jaw, ignoring his reflexive flinch just before Mark’s fingertips land on the soft skin beneath his ear. He slides further down to feel light, rough stubble and then hesitantly rests his thumb in the center of Eduardo’s lower lip, feeling it wet and swollen. Eduardo closes his eyes, swallowing thickly.

Mark studies his face, willing himself to stay neutral; it’s been too long since he’s cursed anything and he doesn’t know how to stop it once it’s started. Eduardo closes his lips around the tip of his thumb and it’s too much, too close, and anyway Mark will have to move his thumb if he wants to kiss him properly again, so he does. 

He finds, rather quickly, that his hands against any part of Eduardo’s skin drives him crazy, drives them _both_ crazy. He’s soft everywhere, gloves rough and grip gentle again Mark’s ribs, mouth warm, and Mark finds himself wanting nothing else, nothing else in this moment, but to feel.

\--

 

Mark is awake again while it’s still dark out, the standby light from his laptop blinking shadows onto the walls and the steady illumination of his monitor the only light to see by. He listens for a moment, but the only sound is Eduardo’s light breathing – Chris and Dustin are out. Mark thinks dully that he should probably be either embarrassed or guilty, but Eduardo’s leg brushes against his when he shifts slightly and stretches, so he is neither.

Mark shivers and curls towards Eduardo – it’s winter, it’s Boston, it’s cold and he’s not wearing anything so he figures he has a pretty good excuse. Eduardo’s waking up too slowly, but he smiles at Mark when he finally squints his eyes open.

It’s not until Eduardo touches gloved fingertips to a bruise he’d left just above Mark’s collar that Mark remembers that his hands are bare. It’s been a while since he’s fallen asleep like this what with sharing a dorm with three people. He remembers how addictive his palms on Eduardo’s skin had been and feels almost sorry that he hadn’t insisted on pulling off Eduardo’s gloves as well; then he remembers the long, tan expanse of Eduardo’s skin contrasted only with the dark, tailored leather of his gloves and feels selfish again.

“Is this why you left Brazil?”

“ _Hmm?_ ” 

Mark runs his fingers along the inside of Eduardo’s wrist, stopping at the hemline of his glove. “The Heebeegeebies. Were you trying to hide it?”

“No,” Eduardo says around a yawn, “Not really. There were – are, I guess – a lot of kidnappings. Crime families stealing worker kids and forcing them into the business, that sort of thing. My name turned up on a list.”

Mark tries to imagine a young Eduardo forced to work as a mobster, all skinny bones and eyes too ridiculously large for his face. He can’t. “So you were trying to hide.”  
“We were trying to keep me safe,” Eduardo says. Mark eases two of his fingers under Eduardo’s glove, sliding them in to press at the palm of his hand. Eduardo is watching him, eyes on the side of his face that Mark ignores.

“Well look at you now, even the final clubs want you.” 

He means for it to come out more sarcastically than it does. He opens his mouth to correct himself, but Eduardo only makes an amused note of protest low in his throat and curls his hand closed, trapping Mark’s fingers between his skin and his glove.

He could work him right now. He could be _being_ worked. Mark looks at Eduardo’s face and sees the slight working of muscle under his jaw, Eduardo’s expression calm and defiant.

Mark tugs experimentally, just a twitch of his fingers and Eduardo lets go. Pushing himself up by, he leans over Eduardo, arms bracketing him in just to kiss him, just because he can. Because it’s simple, an action and a reaction that can mean everything and nothing and sometimes both all at once.  
Because touching is safer than feeling.

\--

 

Chris edges his way slowly into the suite some indeterminate amount of time later. Mark knows there was daylight again, and possibly food, but only an hour ago had they decided that showers were in order. Mark drags his laptop over to the couch, which is where Chris finds them once he’s decided that the dorm is safe to enter. 

“Sorry,” Eduardo says sincerely, which makes Mark roll his eyes.

Chris sighs long-sufferingly. “Don’t be, it’s nice to have confirmation that Mark is human.”

Eduardo tries and fails at masking a laugh. Mark glares at them both. 

“Have to hand it to you guys, though.” Chris makes a gesture that encompasses the whole of the couch. 

Mark takes stock of the situation. Eduardo is slumped against the corner of the couch, and Mark is slumped against him, wrapped in his power cord and Eduardo’s legs where they’re folded underneath Mark, heels resting against the coffee table. 

“You’d two might as well be wearing signs around your neck that say _we’re fucking_.”

“Chris!” Eduardo says, playing at being shocked, although they both know that Chris isn’t as innocent as his baby face suggests. Mark ignores them, Chris’s words circling in his head.

“Relationship status,” he says. 

“What?”

“ _Relationship status_.” Mark practically launches himself at his computer. 

It doesn’t take long to add the option, but Eduardo is already hanging over his shoulder, watching what must be incomprehensible code as Mark types. “Think about it. You meet someone in class or at a party and you want to know if they’re single. You can’t just ask without being rude, but you don’t want to say the wrong thing and offend anyone. So what do you do? You check their Facebook page.” Mark sits back in his chair. “ _Relationship status. Interested in_.”

“Mark, that’s good. That’s really, _really good_.”

He leans forward to update the code; hits refresh. “That’s it.”

“That’s it? It’s live?”

“It’s live. Do you still have the emails from the Phoenix?” Eduardo pulls out his Blackberry and grins  
.  
“I knew that experience would count for something,” he says, and Mark sends out the invites.

“There.” Mark barely has to turn his head and Eduardo is so close. Mark can see everything there, he can _see it_ : he could, if he wanted to, reach with bare hands, take that look on Eduardo’s face and make it something different, something more.

He won’t. If he does, he’ll never know what it is that makes Eduardo look this way. He’d never know for sure.

“Chris,” Eduardo says, “No offense, but I think you’d better leave,” and closes the distance before Chris can probably even process what he’d said. The kiss is soft, Eduardo’s grin wide until Mark gets a hand in his hair, holding him steady with another hand on his hip, Eduardo’s knee resting on the chair next to Mark’s thigh, and Mark kisses back hard.

“This is it,” Eduardo repeats, and even Mark can’t stop himself from answering Eduardo’s smile with one of his own.

|||

> “In February of 2004, Misters Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss and Divya Narendra filed a cease-and-desist letter against you and thefacebook.”
> 
> Mark breathes in, a chill racing down his spine. He holds his face passive, but he can’t stop the bite in his words. “The Winklevii were under the impression that my website was _similar_ to theirs.”
> 
> Eduardo’s lawyer shares a look with Sy. “They never pressed charges despite their threats, and when we contacted them, they declined to comment.”
> 
> Mark shrugs. “They were wrong. They must have realized.” He chances a glance at Eduardo, who widens his eyes just a fraction when he catches Mark looking. 
> 
> A moment before, Mark had actually been afraid that Eduardo might have said something to his lawyer, but now – now he’s piecing it together, and Mark looks away. He doesn’t want to see Eduardo’s face when he realizes, when Mark lands him another blow even now.
> 
> He never asked. Mark thinks – Mark would like to think – that he would have told Eduardo the truth about the Winklevoss twins, if only he had asked.

In all honesty, Mark isn’t paying attention to the girls. It’s not that he thinks he’ll ever be the next Bill Gates, but he can’t tear his focus away, not even when Eduardo twists sideways to talk to the girls in the row behind them and sets a hand lightly over Mark’s thigh.

Eduardo, though, is a gentleman, or so he tells Mark when they’re leaving the lecture hall, his breath visible in the winter air, practically quivering with excitement about what she had said.

“She knew you, she _recognized_ you!” Eduardo is saying, holding Mark by the elbow like he’s too excited to bother with personal space. 

Mark is still cold when they make it back to the dorm, and although he’ll never admit that, he’s grateful when he crosses the common area and Eduardo pulls him in at the hips, still practically vibrating with excitement. His breath is warm against Mark’s frozen cheek and his mouth is warm and his body is warm where Mark ducks his hands inside his wool coat and pushes it off at the shoulders.

“We have groupies,” Wardo grins, pulling his arms out of his sleeves impatiently. His cheeks are pink and it reminds Mark of the day he asked him to be a part of this behind a horrid AEPi party; it feels so long ago but it’s only been weeks, and now they have groupies. _Facebook me _, the girl had said, and Mark pulls Eduardo back in until he’s warm enough to feel his toes again.__

__He gets Eduardo’s shirt loose and he has Eduardo’s gloved hands up under his t-shirt and hoodie, pushing him none-too-gently into his desk so that the empty bottles rattle. In the next second he’s trying to push Mark up onto the desktop, which is probably a bad idea and Mark’s computers are on there and if this thing breaks it will be bad, but those thoughts are fleeting and he’s more interested in where Eduardo’s hips are in relation to his._ _

__He braces his hands on the edge of the desk and paper crumples beneath his palms._ _

__Eduardo pulls his mouth away from Mark’s with some effort. “Move that,” he says, grabbing an entire stack of papers away to clear a space._ _

__Mark is vaguely amused at Eduardo’s concern -- only he would care about Mark’s things at a time like this -- so he doesn’t think about what Eduardo is holding until it’s too late, until he can see it written on Eduardo’s face._ _

__“Give me those.” Mark reaches out for the paper but Eduardo snatches them away._ _

__“Mark, what is this?”_ _

__“It’s nothing, come on, just put them down.”_ _

__“It’s not _nothing_ , these people – these Winklevoss guys think you stole their idea. Mark, did you steal their idea?”_ _

__“Of course not, Wardo, what? I didn’t steal anything. They came to me with an idea, I had a better one, can we move on?”_ _

__“You should have told me.”_ _

__“It’s not going to matter, they’re not going to want anything to do with the company.”_ _

__“It says they could sue us, Mark, you know this could be intellectual property theft?”_ _

__Mark snorts. “Right, because they’re the only guys to ever have thought of a dating site. Did we get any beer?”_ _

__Eduardo’s gaze lingers on his back as Mark moves to the mini-fridge, which Mark steadfastly ignores. Sure enough, Eduardo is still standing by his desk when Mark turns around, papers still in his hands, still wearing the same expression of disbelief. It looks absurd on him in this moment, with his shirt half-untucked and his mouth still swollen_ _

__“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says in a voice small and hurt, and Mark tries to parse where that’s coming from – the Winklevii were nothing, they didn’t matter in the long run and now Eduardo is something Mark can’t understand again._ _

__“It’s nothing,” Mark repeats, and after a moment grabs a second beer for Eduardo. “Here, we’re celebrating._ _

__Eduardo stares at him for a second longer and then blindly presses the papers back onto Mark’s desk, running gloved hands through his hair. “Mark, listen. Just because this doesn’t make sense to _you_ doesn’t mean the twins won’t try to press charges. They have a _lot of money,_ okay, we don’t.”_ _

__“We _will_. Take the beer, Wardo.” _ _

__He does, snatching it out of Mark’s hand and taking a long pull, then placing it alongside the papers on Mark’s desk with a clunk._ _

__“What if… what if we let them have a cut?”_ _

__“No. What? No.”_ _

__Eduardo nods placatingly and all hope of continuing their earlier activities fades when he starts tucking his shirt back in carefully, shoulders squaring up. “I know, okay, this is – it’s ours, I get that. But we need money, and the Winklevii have that.”_ _

__“We don’t want their money.”_ _

__“I –Mark, I am the _CFO_ , you can’t just decide –”_ _

__“They don’t want us, Wardo, I promise. They don’t want you.”_ _

__Eduardo gapes. “They don’t even know me,” he says, and his voice is hard but his shoulders slump slightly._ _

__Mark shakes his head, trying to figure out how to backtrack even though Eduardo has come to the wrong conclusion; this isn’t about _him_ , it’s about what he can _do_._ _

__“They don’t need to know how you handle the finances, that’s completely different. All they need to know is your name, and they won’t take a gamble on you.”_ _

__“You’re saying I’m a liability. Because I’m a worker.”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__Eduardo takes a swig of beer. Swallows, pulls another. Then he pauses with the bottle halfway to his mouth and makes a visible effort to settle it down slowly back onto the top of the desk. There’s a look in his eye that Mark can’t read, and it’s huge enough that he almost has to look away. Mark blinks, setting his jaw._ _

__In a shallow, steady voice, Eduardo says, “Is this why you won’t put me on the masthead?”_ _

__“Oh. I –”_ _

__“Yes or no, Mark.”_ _

__“You know I don’t care, Wardo,” Mark says, but for a minute he wonders if Eduardo _does_ know._ _

__“But?”_ _

__“But it’s – come on. You know how the world is. Nobody is going to trust a young luck worker with a company like this.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Eduardo says faintly, eyes far away. “But you. How can you pick and choose?”_ _

__“I don’t follow.”_ _

__“This,” Eduardo says, placing a palm flat on the cease and desist letter. “You don’t think the Winklevii have a leg to stand on, and you don’t believe that I’m going to perform curse fraud on or, or fuck up the company, but you won’t let me come out to the public as CFO?”_ _

__“Mark. What are we going to do about this?”_ _

__“I’ll take care of it.”_ _

__“They aren’t going to just _go away_ , the Winklevoss twins have the money and legal services to back them up.”_ _

__“I said I would take care of it,” Mark repeats. Eduardo sighs, shaking his head a little._ _

__“Tell me the next time something like this happens,” he says, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. So Mark goes and untucks Eduardo’s shirttails vindictively, getting a small, shaky grin for his efforts._ _

__Eduardo seems to forget about the cease-and-desist letter after that, and for a little while Mark forgets, too._ _

__

__\--_ _

__The Winklevoss twins are predictable. Mark knows how often and how early the rowers are out on the river, constantly training out of what must be sheer insanity, is Mark’s best guess. and he also knows exactly what the twins’ class schedules look like. He doesn’t even have to hack anything; they provided that information themselves through CourseMatch, and all Mark had to do was apply the program._ _

__In the bike room, back in February, there had been club photographs littering the walls dating back at least half a century. The bare hands of the members in the earlier photos wasn’t surprising, but Mark had frowned at the club photos starting in the last few decades: all of the members standing stoically, hands clasped behind their backs._ _

__The final clubs boast their clean rosters – according to tradition nobody who is hyperbathygammic is allowed in, but according to rumor, at least half of them are workers. Hands behind their backs, hands hidden: it’s Schrödinger’s club, every member both a worker and not a worker until somebody bothers to check._ _

__Mark had followed Tyler and Cameron Winklevoss into the bike room and watched them both shed their gloves, an unconscious habit, while Divya Narendra made no move to remove his own. They might as well have shown Mark two plastic handguns and one real, fully loaded._ _

__The twins have free time in the evening. It’s cold, even Mark can admit that, but nobody expects him to dress appropriately (no matter how often Eduardo leaves fleece-lined gloves and scarves around the Kirkland dorm), so a pair of old cotton gloves won’t arouse any suspicion. Threadbare as they are, it’s easy to pick a hole in the palm of the right glove, and one on each of the fingertips for good measure._ _

__If Mark has to take a few deep breaths before he enters the boathouse, then nobody has to know._ _

__The sounds of oars pushing through water are loud in the tall building. Just as Mark suspected, the Winklevoss twins are training for probably the third time today alone, rowing pool oars in bare-handed grips._ _

__The first one – Cameron, Mark presumes – stops rowing first. There’s a few seconds of outrage from Tyler before he catches on, and then their identical faces are wearing identical expressions._ _

__“ _Zuckerberg_ , one of them growls, climbing out of the boat, but his brother talks over whatever else he was about to say._ _

__“Do you even have permission to be here? This pool is reserved.”_ _

__Mark snorts. “Do you want to talk, or what?”_ _

__“Oh, I want something,” Tyler mutters. Mark ignores it, keeping his hands tucked into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie._ _

__“You got our letter?”_ _

__“Yes, I got the letter your lawyers drafted,” Mark says, reprimanding himself internally. He takes a breath to focus, then lies: “You’re right, I used your idea.”_ _

__“We want you to take down the site,” Tyler says. Mark shakes his head._ _

__“And what, change the header to ‘Harvard Connection,’ credit you? This whole campus will see is as a takeover.”_ _

__Cameron shoulder-checks Tyler and the two exchange something with raised eyebrows and sour expressions that Mark can’t understand and for reasons that are unknown._ _

__“What do you propose?” Cameron says, managing to come across as diplomatic despite his damp hair and the sweat rings around the collar of his sweatshirt._ _

__“You get credit as co-founders, we figure out your cut of the percentage later.”_ _

__There’s silence. Mark grits his teeth, hoping that years of pretending to be normal have made him a better liar. The twins look at each other. Tyler shrugs. Cameron nods._ _

__“Deal,” he says, “but this isn’t over. We want it in writing at later, got it?”_ _

__Mark holds out a hand. “Got it.”_ _

__He shakes Cameron’s hand first, then Tyler’s. All curses have one thing in common: they work on mere intent. It’s easy, it’s effortless, just a thought. Mark can feel it in himself for the barest of moments before the emotion leaves his skin and moves onto theirs; forgiveness, goodwill, respect._ _

__Real emotion is more complicated than the curse. It’s this part that Mark is unsure about, because if the emotions he gave the twins feel too fake, they’re going to know, and they’re going to be angry. Not now – now, he’s bought them time at the very least. He can only hope that they feel genuine fondness for him long enough that they forget, eventually._ _

__At the moment, even Tyler is wearing a vaguely pleased expression. “You know what?” he says, pulling his hand back. “Maybe we can hold off on that meeting. Cam, we can get our site up and running with a new programmer, right?”_ _

__Cameron nods enthusiastically. “Definitely. We’ll see how it goes and get back to you later.”_ _

__Mark tries very, very hard not to laugh. He isn’t sure if that’s part of the blowback or not – he isn’t sure how long he has before it hits. He nods at them, says something he doesn’t remember, and then his chest seizes up, overwhelmed by something he can’t name, and – Mark flees._ _

__\--_ _

__It’s been a while, and Mark finds that it isn’t any easier. He folds himself under the covers on his bed and buries his head in his hands to wait it out. It goes on and on like that, moments of clarity broken by hysteria or something else, something worse and all at once until he doesn’t feel like himself anymore, wonders if he’ll ever be the same way again._ _

__In truth, the worst of it is over within a couple of hours, but he manages to avoid Eduardo until late the next day, when he feels like he can be around people without his face giving himself away; until his moods feel predictable and under control._ _

__So it starts out nice, crisp winter air adding more clarity to Mark’s post-blowback body, Eduardo warm and close and oblivious as they walk back from the dining hall._ _

__And then the Winklevoss twins step into view, Divya Narendra among them, and Mark’s stomach seizes._ _

__Cameron smiles and waves, which Eduardo returns hesitantly. It’s Divya that takes him off guard. The moment he sees Mark he sets off towards him, face thunderous. Mark fights the base instinct that tells him to _run_ because it’s useless to him – one touch of his hand and the situation is his. Not that he would risk it. Not again._ _

__“Div, stop!” one of the twins growls, getting a hand around Divya’s bicep and tugging him backward, but he lunges forward like a rabid dog._ _

__“Zuckerberg!” he shouts, and Mark almost feels like laughing at how absurd it is._ _

__“What’s going on?” Eduardo asks, and Mark really does laugh unthinkingly._ _

__“No, let me _go_ ,” Divya is saying, and the other twin hisses something at the first one that Mark doesn’t quite catch. “I’ll take care of this.” He raises his voice. “I’ll pull your bones right out of your _skin!_ ” he shouts, and it sends shivers down Mark’s back._ _

__It takes both twins to drag him away. When they’re out of sight and Mark has shaken himself loose enough to start walking again, Eduardo stops him._ _

__“Did you hear that?”_ _

__“It was a death threat, of course I heard it.”_ _

__“He’s a _worker_ , Mark. He said he’d – that’s physical work.”_ _

__“He won’t do anything, Wardo, he’d be imprisoned for life,” Mark says dryly, starting forward again. Eduardo doesn’t loosen his hold on Mark’s sleeve._ _

__“He’s in the Porc. They let a curse worker into the Porc, but I can’t get into the Phoenix?”_ _

__Divya Narendra, for all intents and purposes, is HBG-negative. Mark thinks about Erica in the crowded bar, rolling her eyes heavily and saying _good old boys’ club_. If you want to be successful, you have to hide it. Mark knows this, and so does Eduardo. He doesn’t say anything, just shakes Eduardo’s hand loose and takes it in his own. They walk back to the dorm that way, huddled close for warmth._ _

__Dustin is on the couch when they get in, and when Eduardo dumps himself heavily into the armchair, Dustin shoots Mark a questioning glance._ _

__“Where’s Chris?” Mark says, because Eduardo will never forget about Divya Narendra and the Porcellian if Dustin starts cooing over him, and Chris comes out of his room with a book in hand and a question on his face._ _

__“Good, okay,” Mark starts. “We need to expand. Columbia, Yale.”_ _

__Eduardo sits up straighter. “And Stanford,” he says, “They need to see this in Palo Alto.”_ _

__He’s grinning, excited, and Mark smirks. This will make Eduardo forget about his anger – just this, and Mark didn’t even have to lay a finger on him._ _

___|||_

> “You had a series of meetings with advertisers that spring, correct?”
> 
> “Mark wasn’t interested in advertising.”
> 
> “What _was_ Mark interested in?”
> 
> “When thefacebook expanded, we started gathering more attention. Evidently, we piqued the interest of Sean Parker.”
> 
> “Sean Parker of Napster?”
> 
> Mark isn’t proud, but he can’t make eye-contact when Eduardo looks over this time. He can’t read him, he can’t see anything on his face, and it’s unsettling.
> 
> “Mark was very interested in Sean Parker’s help.”

“But the crazy shit is,” Sean Parker says as he leans forward in his seat, eyes roaming between Mark’s and Eduardo’s in turn, “if you _aren’t_ a worker, you’re screwed. They’ll make that up, you know what I’m saying? You gotta have power in this business, I don’t care what the government tells you.”

__Mark thinks this meeting may have gone past the point of its usefulness, if only because Sean is too drunk now to be thinking in any terms other than conspiracy. That, and the way Eduardo’s hand finds the top of his thigh and squeezes there just this side of too hard. His jaw is locked and Mark doesn’t move because he gets the feeling that he’s the only reason Eduardo hasn’t flown off the handle yet. Interesting, considering the fact that Sean is basically telling Eduardo everything he’s ever wanted to hear about what it means to be a worker in the business world._ _

__“Everything, every _where_ is owned by one of the families, I swear on my life,” Sean continues. “Mark, dude, you _have_ to make them believe you’re a worker. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. By the time we’re billionaires, they won’t argue when we tell the truth. We’ll show them just how much the Heebiegeebies matter when it comes to money and power.”_ _

__“ _We_?” Eduardo bites out, and now is when Mark’s going to have to pull the plug._ _

__“I don’t care about money,” he cuts in, and Eduardo’s grip relaxes._ _

__“No, of course not, it’s not about money. And that’s why your company will last, Marky. Just gotta play it cool.”_ _

__Sean picks up the check. “Silicon Valley,” he says, “That’s where it’s at, man,” and turns to go. “Oh! And I almost forgot. You want some practical advice? Drop the ‘the.’ Just ‘facebook.’ It’s cleaner.”_ _

__\--_ _

__Something changes as soon as they leave the safety of campus. Facebook is nothing out in New York, and something about the loss of notoriety makes expansion more necessary than ever._ _

__Harvard is comfortable. Mark rests easier back with Dustin and Chris; it’s easier to keep an eye on the site when they’re all together. He and Eduardo are maxing out credit cards for server space and Mark has been skipping more and more classes to monitor the site._ _

__Logic dictates that he shouldn’t be upset when Eduardo starts talking about monetizing the site in earnest, but Mark’s instincts keep overriding every insistence Eduardo makes._ _

__“We don’t need advertising, Wardo, we’ve talked about this.”_ _

__“No, _you’ve_ talked about this. Mark, Facebook will be spending even more money on interns and rent if you go to Palo Alto. How are we supposed to make up that deficit?”_ _

__Mark turns away from his monitor. Dustin calls out a number from the other room (“Nine hundred and eighty seven!”), but it doesn’t register. “You?”_ _

__“I’m sorry?”_ _

__“‘You’ will be spending money in Palo Alto. Not ‘we.’”_ _

__Eduardo looks away, biting the inside of his cheek._ _

__“Wardo?”_ _

__“I should have told you sooner, but – my father set up an internship for me in New York, I can’t go out to California this summer.”_ _

__(“Nine hundred and ninety three!”)_ _

__Mark doesn’t understand – why. Why Eduardo would want to leave Facebook, leave _him_. “Why New York? You have a company right here.”_ _

__“My name’s not even on the masthead, Mark.”_ _

__Mark frowns; they’ve talked about this. At length. Eduardo is fine with it now, what -- “What does it matter? You’re doing the work, you’ll get credit – Wardo, you’re co-founder. What’s the point of an internship?”_ _

__“You don’t understand, my father knows people we can’t. I can work there and I won’t have to hide, Mark, I can’t expect you to imagine what that would feel like.”_ _

__“A Wall Street firm that allows workers? And which family owns it, the Brennans? The Zacharovs?”_ _

__“They do good things for us, Mark,” and Mark can feel the exclusion; he’s not part of ‘us,’ not to Eduardo. “Where else do you expect will hire me? I’m a known positive for HBG.”_ _

__“I’m saying you don’t need them, Wardo. You have Facebook.” _You have me_._ _

__“I know that. You know I do.”_ _

__“Then come with me.”_ _

__Dustin slides halfway into the room then, hanging off the doorway to stop his forward motion. “Guys! One hundred and fifty thousand members!”_ _

__Mark smiles, only half-present, and Dustin flings himself back to the other side of the suite, presumably to all Chris._ _

__“Congratulations, Mark.” Eduardo says. Mark lifts the corner of his mouth in spite of himself and Wardo leans in to kiss him, soft and congratulatory._ _

__“Congratulations.”_ _

__“I can’t come to California, not yet. I’m sorry.”_ _

__“Then at least give me some interns.”_ _

__“Okay, okay. Interns.”_ _

__Eduardo smiles, but Mark is an expert at fake emotions, and he sees right through it._ _

__\--_ _

__As soon as they’re settled in Palo Alto, Eduardo calls him to say that he quit his internship. He also says that he’s staying in New York. Mark tries to parse that, tries to understand why Eduardo wouldn’t want to come back to California now that he has nothing holding him back. Tries to understand why he changed his mind._ _

__In the end he wires in and hopes the answer will come to him in his post-coding haze, when the world seems like it might exist in _true_ and _false_ after all. Instead, all he sees are emotions tripping around and through each other, messy and irrational and raw, and he tugs his gloves on that much tighter._ _

__\--_ _

__

__Letting Sean Parker in is an easy decision. Mark and the company feel aimless and confined, and he’s working on building this site that stretches out further and further in Mark’s head like a star map, but he can’t navigate it alone._ _

__The worst thing – even after everything that happens later – is that when Sean shows up on his doorstep, a small part of him feels vindictive and delighted at the prospect. Eduardo should be here, but if he’s going to choose New York instead, then he can deal with the consequences._ _

__\--_ _

__Mark wires in the day before Eduardo’s visit with no intention of surfacing until it’s time to pick him up from the airport. It’s disorienting to wake up to a dark house, muffled rain against the roof. Everything feels sealed inside and close, cut off from the outside world, and yet there’s Eduardo, standing in the entryway like the eye of the storm._ _

__“Eduardo!” Sean is saying, phone clutched against one ear while he shuts the door. “Nice of you finally drop by, buddy.”_ _

__Eduardo lowers his shoulder bag with a _thump_ ; Mark steps out of the hallway._ _

__“Wardo.”_ _

__“Mark? You were supposed to pick me up from the airport an hour ago.”_ _

__Reality breaks. Mark frowns._ _

__\--_ _

__A number of explanations flit their way through Mark’s mind when he followed Eduardo into the hallway, but everything melts away to anger at the expression on Mark’s face, the distance between them._ _

__“What is he doing here?” Eduardo starts, voice clipped._ _

__“Listen, I—”_ _

__“Mark, please, just answer the question. What is _Sean Parker_ doing here?”_ _

__Defensiveness builds up in him like a fire, comes out louder than he expected, angrier. “I don’t know, Eduardo, making contacts, setting up meetings – ”_ _

__“And you didn’t think to tell me? I’ve been out there looking for advertisers --”_ _

__“You _weren’t here!_ ”_ _

__Eduardo shuts his mouth with a snap, breathing heavily into the silence of the hallway. His wet hair and clothes are dripping onto the carpeting, eyes wide with anger and Mark just wants to backtrack, go back to ten minutes ago, start again. He can’t, and when he asks himself if Eduardo would deserve a second chance, the answer is clear._ _

__“What am I supposed to do, Mark?,” Eduardo says plaintively and hard-edged. My father has given me until the end of the summer to prove this thing to him and you won’t even answer my calls. I’m not, I’m _nobody_ to this company until it starts making money.”_ _

__“You’re not nobody, Wardo, that’s ridiculous. You just can’t –”_ _

__“- Be a part of it? Yeah. You’ve made that abundantly clear, Mark.”_ _

__“What?”_ _

__“I can’t, because I’m a worker. Right?”_ _

__“You knew that when we started. We made an agreement, Wardo, you _wanted_ to prove your honesty!”_ _

__“Oh, okay, sure. But it’s not stopping you from putting your name all over it, is it?”_ _

__“Wardo?”_ _

__“Is it, Mark?”_ _

__“I don’t understand.” Mark’s pressed himself against the far wall, hands twitching at his sides._ _

__“Oh really? Then take off your gloves.”_ _

__Mark swallows around his suddenly sandpaper-rough throat. “No.”_ _

__Eduardo shakes his head once, jaw tight, and moves into Mark’s space, caging him in with his forearms. Mark wants him to stop, wants him to continue; he wants to pull Eduardo in and make him forget about this, wants him to keep pushing, want him to know. _Finally_. Someone to know, someone else, someone –_ _

__“Take. Them off.”_ _

__Mark catalogues all the places Eduardo’s skin is bare: his face, his neck, his wrists just above the cuff of his gloves where his cuff linked shirt and jacket have ridden up. Just two small points of contact. Mark catalogues them, and stays away from them._ _

__He pulls his gloves off slowly and lets them fall to the floor._ _

__Eduardo’s eyes are wide, like maybe he’d been calling Mark’s bluff, like maybe he hadn’t known for sure. It’s all right though, it’s okay. This would happen eventually, Mark tells himself as Eduardo moves away; this was inevitable. One day – this day – Wardo would know._ _

__“What is it?” Eduardo says eventually, the air in the hallway still and the walls silent, like they’re trapped in a time capsule, like one day they will be excavated from this moment and it will all be a horrible memory. “What’s your curse?”_ _

__“Emotion,” Mark confesses._ _

__Eduardo lets out an aborted sound, half disbelief, half laughter. Mark slides his eyes closed._ _

__“This whole time,” Eduardo says, voice dangerous in a way Mark has never heard it before, “you have been telling me that I will ruin this company’s credibility. This _whole time_ , and here you are, Mark, and _you’re a worker too_ \--”_ _

__“It’s not the same! Nobody,” he swallows, “nobody knows, just my family, just you, _Wardo_.”_ _

__For a moment, a long moment, Mark can feel a sourness curling through the air between them, Eduardo’s eyes glinting and the rainwater dripping onto the carpet. _I didn’t,_ Mark wants to say, but for a horrible minute, just this side of too-long, Mark isn’t sure if he’d be telling the truth. _I never worked you, Eduardo.__ _

__Whatever is on his face must be convincing enough, because while Eduardo’s shoulders slump forward, he doesn’t turn away. He scrubs at his eyes with a gloved thumb and forefinger, pinches the ridge of his nose briefly and sighs._ _

__“You could have told me. You should have told me, Mark, I –” He cuts himself off with a pained sound deep in his throat. Mark’s hands twitch at his sides, thinking he should comfort him, but he can’t. Not now, not when he can’t understand this, when he doesn’t know his place._ _

__“I’m going to bed,” Eduardo announces. He looks at Mark with his jaw set like he’s expecting a challenge, and Mark doesn’t know how to make him understand that this hasn’t changed, that _nothing has to change_._ _

__So he doesn’t say anything. He leans past Eduardo and shoves at the open door to his bedroom so that it swings sluggishly another few inches, gesturing vaguely. Eduardo glances over his shoulder, chews a lip briefly. When he bends to pick up his sodden bags he grabs Mark’s gloves from where they had fallen to the floor and presses them lightly into Mark’s chest._ _

__Mark takes them, hand brushing against the wet leather of Eduardo’s glove, and goes back out into the living room to help Dustin with the Wall. When Dustin heads off to find an empty mattress some hours later, Mark tumbles onto the couch, about which Dustin, mercifully, says nothing._ _

__\--_ _

__A sound in the kitchen wakes Mark up far earlier then he’d like. He lies on the couch for a long moment, thinking he should go in to his bedroom, wake Eduardo up and start over. He hauls himself up, and that’s when he notices the sound he’d heard - Eduardo is standing in the kitchen holding a glass of orange juice. He’s fully dressed, suitcase at his feet._ _

__Mark would be lying if he said he was surprised._ _

__“I just – need a few days,” Eduardo says before Mark can open his mouth._ _

__“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Do you – need a ride?”_ _

__“I called a cab.”_ _

__“Right, sure, of course. Wardo, I –” he cuts himself off._ _

__“What?”_ _

__Mark shakes his head. The taxi can’t be here yet, Eduardo had only just started looking for breakfast, but he grabs his bag anyway and hauls it over his shoulder. “I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”_ _

__When Eduardo leaves, Mark has nothing to do but wander back over to the couch. He presses fists against his thighs and tries to think of nothing._ _

__Dustin trudges into the room with his laptop tucked under his arm. He looks around, eyes squinted nearly shut like he’s trying to see underwater. “Where’s Wardo?”_ _

__Mark doesn’t say anything. His gloves are brand new and the leather squeaks when he stretches his fingers out of their curl, Dustin stumbles over to the couch to sit beside him, and nobody, not even Sean, says a single word all morning._ _

__

___|||_

> “And what became of your visit to Palo Alto, Mr. Saverin?”
> 
> Eduardo’s chair has turned, some of his straight posture slumped against the back. It’s like he can’t look at Mark at all anymore and he has to look at his lawyer instead, answering questions that sound rehearsed. “Mark called me later that day. I had just returned to my apartment at the time in New York when Mark called to say they – that he and Sean Parker -- had landed an angel investment. Peter Theil was giving them half a million dollars, brand new servers, new offices.”
> 
> “What did Mark say?”
> 
> “He asked me to come back. So I did.”

Eduardo calls the new offices when his flight has lands, which one of the new interns tells Mark in tones of confusion, and then Mark is called off to sign more papers. Wardo is sitting at his desk when he returns, listening to whatever Chris is telling him, wearing a suit and gloves it’s so dangerously good to see him. Mark feels bright, wide, forgetful. “Wardo.”

__“Hey!” Eduardo says, spinning himself out of the chair and coming to a stop in front of Mark, smiling warmly. “Look at this place. God, can you believe it?”_ _

__“Yes,” Mark says, and Eduardo’s grin widens. “Want a tour?”_ _

__They barely make it out of the main floor and onto a deserted hallway before Eduardo gets his hands on him, warm and close like he used to always be. Mark lets his back hit the wall and he stretches into the kiss, feeling drunk with success, stupid with it. He missed this, he missed him, and when Mark tells him this Eduardo lights up from the inside._ _

__“Mark, I –” he begins, slotting a knee between Mark’s legs and Mark tucks his face into his shoulder, nods. If he doesn’t think, if he doesn’t speak then maybe, maybe, they can – just this once –_ _

__Eduardo rocks further into him and Mark has to hold back a moan, lets Eduardo find his mouth again and keep him quiet. Mark sets his grip onto Eduardo’s hips and wishes he could have more. He pretends he doesn’t know that he can’t, pretends he’s not thinking about how he’ll never be able to walk down this hallway again, and focuses the curl of Eduardo’s tongue against his teeth. It will have to be enough._ _

__

__\--_ _

__

__If Mark ever said that he was unaware of what the repercussions would be, he’d be straight up lying. He knew which papers Eduardo was signing, he knew it had to be done and he knew why. The only thing he is ever sorry for is being naïve enough to believe that it could work out in the first place, a curse worker in one of the highest positions in the company. The hypocrisy is not lost on him._ _

__When the laptop hits the desk, Mark’s heart trips into overtime. He breathes in, whatever Eduardo says muffled by the shock, and then focuses._ _

__“You did this,” Eduardo hisses, seemingly shocked by his own words. They hit Mark like a slap in the face. Eduardo’s expression seems to crumple in on itself for a moment, just long enough that Mark has to look away. “You cursed me, didn’t you, you made me –”_ _

__“Do you really think that’s true?” bursts out of Mark like a shot, hard edged and flat. He sets his jaw and looks Eduardo in the eye, daring him to even consider finishing that sentence._ _

__“’Cursed?’ Mark, what the hell is he talking about?” Sean demands, but Mark has little concern for him right now as he sits up, pushing back into Eduardo’s space like a challenge._ _

__“You weren’t even here, Wardo. If I had worked you we wouldn’t be in this situation, you wouldn’t have been able to _help_ being here, even if you tried to stay away. Don’t blame your bad decisions on me, you have _no idea_ what you’re talking about.”_ _

__Eduardo searches Mark’s face like he’s looking for lies, expression cold. Mark’s instincts tell him to reach out and make this better, but his control is hard-won._ _

__“You’re right,” Wardo says, straightening, “You couldn’t possibly have worked me.”_ _

__Mark has no idea what to do with the steel of Eduardo’s voice as he says it or the red rim of his eyes; one doesn’t equal another. He feels helpless against the complexity of human emotion, and says nothing._ _

__“You better lawyer up, asshole, ‘cause I’m not coming back for 30 percent.” Eduardo straightens his gloves pointedly. “I’m coming back for everything.”_ _

__

___|||_

> “Mark doesn’t know where Eduardo goes once they sign the settlement papers. He watched impassively when Eduardo wrote his final signature on the non-disclosure agreement, but he can still recall the memory of Eduardo’s hand around the pen, his familiar tailored gloves, and in Mark’s head this signature and the one Eduardo had used to sign his shares away become one and the same.
> 
> He keeps his distance, and three months after Erica Albright sends him a Friend Request, Mark books a flight halfway across the earth.

Mark knows this is Eduardo’s apartment because Chris told him. For the first time since he left for the airport he wonders if he might have exploited Chris’ continued friendship with Eduardo, or if he has any right to be here at all. Well, of course he doesn’t have the right, but he’s here either way.

__He knocks and waits and Eduardo flings the door open without, apparently, checking to see who is standing in his hallway. He has his cell phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, apparently listening to whoever is on the other end tell him their life story because he stands there in silence for longer than is necessary, mouth quirked to the side, looking at Mark and chewing on the inside of his cheek. Then he shuts the door._ _

__Mark’s fingers drum the air beside his thigh. He can hear Eduardo through the door: _Hey, I – yeah, sorry, I’ll have to call you back, someone’s here. Yeah, yeah. Okay, b–. Okay. Bye.__ _

__The door opens again and Eduardo turns, heading back into the apartment. Mark steps in and closes the door behind him, hesitating with his fingers over the doorknob, then locks it._ _

__It’s nice. It’s not huge, but it’s nice, Mark supposes. Eduardo’s gone but catches sight of him a moment later, passing across the entrance to the kitchen._ _

__“Are you hungry?” Eduardo asks when Mark steps in, looking in the cabinets for something._ _

__“No.”_ _

__Eduardo hums. “Let me guess, you just came in a taxi from the airport and you didn’t eat the plane food. I haven’t gone shopping, is cereal okay?”_ _

__“Wardo.”_ _

__Eduardo’s back stiffens. He turns around, leaning back against the counter while Mark gauges his reaction – he hadn’t meant to screw this up so quickly. “I’m trying not to ask the obvious question here, Mark.”_ _

__Mark shrugs. “I wanted to see you.”_ _

__Eduardo sighs, squaring his shoulders. He looks at the air above Mark’s head, then at the corner of the ceiling. “Why?” he asks, eyes finally venturing to Mark’s face. “Because of a couple of polite conversations in Silicon Valley?”_ _

__“Chris – ” Mark starts._ _

___“Chris.”_ _ _

__Mark swallows. Eduardo has his jaw set now, eyes wide in a familiar kind of self-righteous indignation that Mark remembers pretty well, scenes that play across his mind of Eduardo in the first Palo Alto house. Anger, though. Anger is good. Anger is not polite hospitality, anger is not dull-eyed resentment._ _

__Mark says, not entirely defensively, “You’ve heard about the update.”_ _

__“Of course I have, I’m still a shareholder, Mark. I get the memos. Not to mention, you’d have to be living under a rock to _not_ have heard about the recent update, as every news media outlet has been reporting it for days on end.” Eduardo hesitates, an instant of what might have been concern flashing across his face between one breath and the next. Mark’s not sure; he may have imagined it. He’s not exactly well-versed in _Eduardo_ anymore._ _

__“You’re not – in some kind of trouble, are you?” Eduardo is saying._ _

__“They haven’t arrested me yet, if that’s what you’re thinking. I didn’t come all the way here to con you into hiding a fugitive.”_ _

__The change had only been up for a few hours when his phone had started logging missed calls from at least three members of Facebook’s board of directors, a text from Dustin, and an angry voicemail from Chris threatening to fly across the country just to grab Mark by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Mark had turned off his phone, cancelled his day, and gone back to sleep._ _

__Contrary to what most of the reports had said, Mark had not added the change on a whim. The amount of time he’d put into debating with himself had been astronomical compared to the amount of time it had actually taken to go into the planned profile update and code in a new option, right there alongside _birthday_ and _relationship status_ : _curse work_ , complete with a drop-down menu listing _none_ and then the seven types. It’s optional only, of course, and Mark is hardly surprised that very few of his vast userbase have utilized it._ _

__Eduardo hasn’t, that he knows. Neither has Mark, although the speculation about him is certainly true. He _is_ a worker, and before long, he’ll have to address the public.  
He’s going to put it off for as long as possible, though. He didn’t do this for himself._ _

__“Why did you come, then?”_ _

___To show you that I’m not afraid_. But he says nothing for long enough that Eduardo should have every right to get angry, to force Mark out of his home.  
But Eduardo just sighs and says, very gently, “Why don’t you come back when you’ve figured it out, then?”_ _

__Even Eduardo is better at manipulating emotions than Mark is._ _

__Mark leaves. ‘Come back’, Eduardo had said, and Mark stares at the carpet out in the hallway, repeating it to himself. He hadn’t said leave, he hadn’t yelled or herded him out or told him to go home to California. Come back¸ Mark thinks, and smiles to himself as the elevator doors ping open._ _

__

__\--_ _

__

__Mark decides that Singapore is a nice place to lie low for a while. He calls Chris and apologizes, calls Sheryl to get updates. In the last two days, dozens of workers – most of them from established crime families – update the _Curse_ section of their profiles. It the few outliers that give Mark hope, the small number of students and bankers and artists and parents that declare their curse as a part of themselves unashamedly. Mark isn’t the one who can say whether or not it’s a smart decision, but that’s the beauty of Facebook and what it has become: created by the user, owned by the user, a declaration of self. Mark may have provided the bullets, but he’s not the one who pulled the trigger.  
And then, to his great surprise, he wakes up on the third day to his phone ringing, the one number he didn’t block, and Eduardo asks him to come back._ _

__He’s there to buzz Mark in this time and Eduardo leads him to the couch in his socked feet, curling them underneath his body. Mark sits._ _

__“Tell me why you’re here, Mark.” Eduardo says seriously. “Tell me, because I can recognize an apology when I see one, even if it comes in the form of radical movement instead of words.”_ _

__Mark lets one corner of his mouth lift into an amused smile. Eduardo settles back into the couch and returns it softly. His stupid hair is back and he looks older, like a more defined version of the Eduardo that used to be Mark’s._ _

__This was supposed to be it. If Mark were to look down the long hallway of his life he would see an end point here, a door closing quietly and sealing everything inside. Eduardo, from the night of the party Mark’s freshman year to the first shocking memory of his skin under Mark’s bare hand; spanning the years they spent apart and ending here, right now in a quiet room with Eduardo’s quiet acceptance. But now he can see it stretching out further, not a certainty but a possibility. Mark shutters away this ending and wants for something new, an idea as vast and terrifying as a cloudless sky._ _

__He slips off a glove. “Do you know what hinders most scientific discovery? Not the school system. Not money. _Fear.__ _

__“Mark?”_ _

__“Most workers have no idea what their abilities do or how they work, and those who regularly practice do so mostly as criminals or, conversely, as party tricks. You work luck, but is it deterministic? It can’t be, not when you’re the one in control.”_ _

__“Right,” Eduardo says tightly, and Mark doesn’t miss the way he shifts subtly away, wary as a colt of Mark’s now-bare hands. Mark lets them fall to his lap._ _

__“You make luck. You see all possible outcomes, reach in and pluck out the one that you want. Did you know that there are luck workers in Australia who can work as conduits? They don’t impose their choice. They let the person being touched decide their own luck, good or bad.”_ _

__Eduardo gapes at him. “I’ve never heard of this, how…?”_ _

__“You’ve never heard of it because American propaganda has been fine-tuned to perfection. There is no legal funding to study curse work. If you want to learn, you have to leave. If you want information, you have to go to it.”_ _

__“Are you saying you’ve studied curse work?”_ _

__“I have,” Mark says. “And I want – Eduardo, I –” He lifts a hand, but Eduardo’s eyes stay locked on his. “Can I?”_ _

__There’s a long moment of doubt; if he says no, Mark will walk out of here and never bother him again. But his heart is kicking in his chest and he doesn’t look away, waits in the breadth of a moment for Eduardo’s nod. Slight, hesitant, but there. Mark reaches out and lets his hand settle over the curve of Eduardo’s neck, thumb resting against the pulse there. Eduardo closes his eyes, and Mark does the same._ _

__It hardly takes a minute. In less time than that, Eduardo is scrabbling at Mark’s wrist like he wants to pry his hand away, but he doesn’t try. His fingers sweep frantically over the soft skin on the underside of Mark’s wrist and he jerks his head away with a gasp, eyes wild._ _

__“Mark,” Eduardo chokes, “ _Mark_ ,” and he only has seconds before the blowback hits. Mark catalogues as much of Eduardo’s reaction as possible before any false emotions can impugn his judgment; he knows that the first, visceral emotional reaction is the most prominent, the most important, and he’s not at all prepared for what he sees._ _

__Interestingly, the first wave of his blowback comes as euphoria. It’s the first simple, pure emotion Mark has ever felt, and he can’t trust it. He tears away from the couch and locks himself in the bathroom, ignoring Eduardo’s voice coming from the other side, thick with concern._ _

__\--_ _

__For a few brief, perfect moments, Mark wakes up and has no idea where he is. His body feels wrung out and empty in a familiar sort of way, like the ocean has rushed in while he was sleeping and scrubbed him clean, inside and out._ _

__He knows this exhaustion. Mark breathes in carefully and a wave washes over him, something that he thinks might be melancholy mixed regret, which is also too familiar and something he rejects immediately. He waits for his mood to stabilize before breathing out again._ _

__Two minutes steal away before Mark shifts onto his back and clumsily goes up on his elbows. Eduardo is there on the bed, curled toward him in a way that means he probably fell asleep trying to watch over Mark. Mark knows, because he used to wake up and find Eduardo like this on his bed in Kirkland for the same reason._ _

__Eduardo stirs. Mark rubs the heel of one hand into his eye and regards Eduardo groggily with the other; he’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday and the gel in his hair is playing traitor, chunks of it sticking up ridiculous and unruly. He looks like a child._ _

__“Hey,” he says, voice fragile with sleep. Mark doesn’t trust himself to say anything. Unexpectedly nervous, Mark’s bare hands curl inward and Eduardo’s eyes track the movement. Eduardo smiles gently and then he moves, rolls a little unsteadily to his feet._ _

__“You can shower first,” he says lightly, and heads towards the kitchenette while Mark slips quietly past him into the bathroom._ _

__He knows that what he gave Eduardo isn’t fair. He stands with his face under the spray and hopes that it’s what Wardo wanted, anyway. It’s what Mark wanted: now Eduardo knows exactly why in a way that Mark could never, would never, articulate. Now he knows it intrinsically, like Eduardo and Mark could have been the same person._ _

__The connection will fade, just like a normal emotion curse, but this takes nothing away from Eduardo. He just owns a piece of Mark now. No more than he ever did, but. Now he knows._ _

__He leaves the bathroom still damp, yesterday’s clothes clinging in places but he feels clean and whole so that’s okay. Eduardo is waiting for him, arms folded and still bed-rumpled._ _

__“Mark.”_ _

__Mark tugs his shirt away from his side and considers whether it’s worth putting gloves on again._ _

__“I know,” he hedges._ _

__“Do you, though? You can’t just—” Eduardo cuts himself off with a frustrated hum. “What am I supposed to do with this?”_ _

__“I thought it would be easier this way. Language is messy.”_ _

__“You think this isn’t messy? I can’t even, I don’t… look, how do I forgive you now without wondering if what I’m feeling is just.” His eyes slip closed. “ _You_ , Mark?”_ _

___You wanted to forgive me_ , Mark thinks, which is intoxicating but he knows it’s not exactly what Eduardo meant. “It wasn’t an apology.”_ _

__Eduardo nods, eyebrows knit together. The look on his face feels too sympathetic, Eduardo’s understanding of Mark’s intentions too perfect now that he’s felt them for himself. Mark shivers, has to look away._ _

__“I want –” Eduardo starts, too loud. “I want to. And that’s what makes this, that’s why this _sucks_ , okay? Because I _shouldn’t want to forgive you._ ”_ _

__Mark smirks at that. “See? Emotion. Too confusing.” He means it as a joke but he’s terrible at jokes and Eduardo knows it; it falls flat. “It’ll go away,” Mark offers._ _

__Eduardo’s eyebrows shoot up and he scrubs a hand over his face, into the mess of his hair. “You didn’t think of mentioning this before?”_ _

__“When would I have mentioned it? When I was riding out the blowback, or after I blacked out? Wardo, it’s just a memory. An emotional memory, it will fade over time.”_ _

__“Okay, okay. Mark, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to need you to leave.”_ _

__For all of his huge eyes and stupid hair, Mark has known Eduardo to be menacing more times than he wishes. This is not one of those times._ _

__“Yeah,” he says, edging around Eduardo to grab his gloves where they’ve been folded neatly at the foot of the bed. “See you.”_ _

__He didn’t ask it as a question. He _hopes_ it’s not a question. Mark’s hair is still damp and stringy and sticking to his forehead when he leaves, but Eduardo knows now for better or for worse, and that alone is worth it._ _

__\--_ _

__It’s time he stop avoiding it, so this time, Mark goes home. His fourteen hour flight and the drive from SFO get him home near midnight, and he has only tumbled into bed three hours ago when his phone wakes him up, the ringtone distorted and unfamiliar in his haze of sleep and travel exhaustion._ _

__“Mark,” Eduardo says in a voice so quiet and thick that Mark has to strain to hear. “Why did you give me this?”_ _

__He swallows around the sudden pressure in his chest, but it releases just as quickly as it had come. He showed Eduardo the answer, he gave it to him for this reason: so he wouldn’t have to find the words, wouldn’t have to struggle to string them all together in a way Eduardo could understand. “I had to,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I needed to let you know that I could, that I had – that I could _feel_. That I can.” _ _

__There’s silence for nearly half a minute. Mark considers checking to see if the line has disconnected, but he can still hear the sounds of Eduardo’s low breaths, and anyway his fingers are clutching his phone so tightly that he’d have to remove them one by one._ _

__“I know you can, Mark. I’ve always known it. And you know, I hope you know that I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t believe it, but sometimes I _wanted_ it to be true. It would have been easier.”_ _

__It takes a minute for Mark to catch up. “Oh.” He laughs, “Sometimes I thought the same thing. But I didn’t work you, that’s about the only thing that still makes any sense. I didn’t make you love me.”_ _

__There’s a heavy sigh from the other end and a muffled _goddammit, Mark_ before Eduardo’s voice returns full volume. “I’m coming to you, okay? Don’t wander off.”_ _

__“I’ve always been here.”_ _

__“I know. I’ll see you.”  
-_ _

__Mark’s curse has nearly faded by the time Eduardo finally makes it to California, just as Mark promised it would. In nine days, when Eduardo’s taxi pulls up, Eduardo doesn’t even have any lingering sentimentality towards Palo Alto. Of course, it’s the weaker emotions that will fade first,_ _

__“But I feel like one person again, so that’s a good thing.”_ _

__Eduardo stands in the middle of his living room and looks it over, declares it “practically unlivable,” and doesn’t leave for two months._ _

__They’re a good two months. Chris flies in from New York and Dustin decides to take a ‘staycation, so we can pretend it’s college again!’ and sometimes, usually when he’s tired, Eduardo have to ask which one of them had felt this fondness or that jealousy. When he leaves, Eduardo stands with his back to the open door and a taxi waiting by the curb and takes Mark by the chin, presses one lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, and says, “Don’t be surprised if I hate you again a week from now.”_ _

__He doesn’t._ _

__It’s three days, four days; Mark plans a private press conference and Facebook’s board swears that they’ll stand with him on the day he finally mouses over the drop-down menu he coded in the middle of the night three months ago, chooses _emotion_ , and saves changes._ _

__Five days later, and Eduardo is back on his doorstep._ _

__“…Hey,” Mark says. “How did you… know I would be home?”_ _

__“I didn’t, I got lucky,” and Wardo doesn’t give Mark any time to react, just hauls him in by the face and kisses him, greedy._ _

__Mark has always been quick to catch on and it wouldn’t be far off base if he said he was a natural born leader, so they make it to the downstairs guest room before Eduardo even manages to get Mark’s hoodie over his head._ _

__“Wait,” Eduardo says. Mark stills with his fingers on the third button of Eduardo’s travel-wrinkled dress shirt, his back against the mattress and Mark above him, knees tight to Eduardo’s hips._ _

__He does it slowly this time, loosening the fingertips of Mark’s glove and sliding his thumb underneath the hem. When they’re both off and Mark feels completely exposed in his cargo shorts and t-shirt, he returns the favor._ _

__Eduardo stills completely, shirt half-unbuttoned and slack-jawed as Mark undoes the tiny snap on the underside of Eduardo’s left glove and slides it off._ _

__“Good?” At his nod, Mark tugs off the right glove, and his fingers catch on Eduardo’s cuff link._ _

__Mark rolls his eyes. “Really?” he says, reaching to undo it, but Eduardo takes his hands away and twists them off._ _

__“You’re right. I don’t need them.”_ _

__And that’s when Mark notices: the links are topped with tiny gemstones, such a commonplace style that Mark never bothered to think about it before.  
Charms. Just two, and Mark can guess what they’re for._ _

__“I told you I didn’t believe what I said,” Eduardo explains. “I know you didn’t work me, or I’d be missing a broken stone.”_ _

__It makes sense. Eduardo’s family probably has dozens of curse charms, and Eduardo especially must have learned how to keep them on him out of habit, hidden and out of the way._ _

__“I’m not proud,” Wardo says. “But I don’t need them. I didn’t need them when we were in school either, for what it’s worth.”_ _

__Mark just shakes his head and slides their right hands together until their fingers lock, palms sliding against one another. What had that slogan been? _Bare hands, bare hearts._ “I’m the reason they settled, you know.” Eduardo makes an inquisitive sound. “They never would have been able to charge you for working luck on the company because you never did.”_ _

__Eduardo chews on the inside of his lip, thumbs at Mark’s jaw with free hand. He gives the tiniest of nods. Mark takes Eduardo’s left hand in his and presses them both back onto the comforter._ _

__“Mark. Can you… does it work both ways, your curse?”_ _

__“No.” He squeezes their tangled fingers, eyes ticking between Eduardo’s own. “Besides, don’t you think I know already?”_ _

__Eduardo hums vaguely, a slip of a smile that Mark has to kiss. “What do I feel then, Mark?”_ _

__“You feel that you want to stay. Today. Tomorrow. Longer.”_ _

__Mark watches him without apprehension, and Eduardo searches Mark’s face as if he could find the answer there. His smile returns in full this time and he twists free one of his hands, fingers coming up to catch at Mark’s jaw._ _

__“Lucky guess,” he says, and pulls him down._ _

__

___fin_ _ _  



End file.
